


Nick Fury's Carnival of Wonders

by RageBear



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, M/M, Multi, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageBear/pseuds/RageBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls! Step under the Big Top for a feast of marvels and delights, the likes of which you've never seen before! Why settle for the dull and dreary, the tepid and the tedious, when you can enter a world of marvels? Gravity is transitory, electricity a novelty, the laws of physics and convention are suspended in this here tent, ladies and gentlemen. Please, step inside Nick Fury's Carnival of Wonders, and prepare to be amazed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Men and a Mammal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Cocky-Hawk and Cerebromangst for proof-reading.

Clint prefers it when they hit up the small places instead of the big cities, the dirt track and not the smooth highways. He likes the way the air tastes on his tongue and the way the wind blasts across the open stretches of land surrounding him. Not like the big, dirty cities they stop by, full of dust and smog with their towering buildings that block out the stars and stifle the wind. Their computer-controlled temperatures make him sick, the people make him angry and he always ends up smoking furiously around the back of his caravan every night, trying to exhale the stress in his body.

It's too cold for him to be out wandering, especially when he'd neglected to warm down after several hours of hanging from a swinging basket, firing arrows at tiny targets. He'd probably get a cramp or a cold if he kept going, and both would result in a tongue lashing from Natasha which Clint was always eager to avoid. But the sky was clear and so dark that he wouldn't have been able to stay indoors if he tried. He wanted to be away from the ambient light of the fire pits and spot lights, just him and the rolling plains of the American prairie with a pack of cigarettes tucked into his pocket.

Clint had wrapped up warm at least; a pair of fingerless gloves with the little fold down pockets on the back for his fingertips, courtesy of Pepper Potts, and a thick woollen scarf wound around his neck like a python. But it wasn't enough to keep out the bitter cold, thick with moisture that would settle as morning dew on the tents and caravans. He'd taken his gun as well, not the ridiculous shotgun that he'd found wedged behind the head of his bunk, but one of the older rifles from his collection. It wasn't the most accurate, not that Clint ever missed, but it would be adequate should he spot a rabbit or something to bring back for dinner, or more likely as an excuse for wandering away from the tents alone.

It was probably the crisp atmosphere and rolling hills of nothing that made Clint's focus sloppy, be it only by a fraction, but it was still enough of a slip-up to put himself in danger.

A patch in the distance shifts and his eyes focus immediately on the area, body gently freezing in place as his fingers trace over the trigger guard of the rifle. The razor sharp wind continues to blow mercilessly over the fields of long grass, and what catches Clint's eye is not really the movement _in_ the grass, but rather the _lack_ of movement in the sea of swaying greenery. He crouches slightly, weaving carefully closer and closer, mind focusing to the point of a pinprick on the area ahead of him.

At about 200 metres, he can make it out as an area of flattened grass, an odd dent in the horizon of surrounding grass indicating a trail to it, probably from an animal. Too big of a patch to be a rabbit though, much too big. He raises the rifle to his shoulder and edges a little closer, noting absently that he is already a little further from the tents than he'd thought. They are barely a strip of lights on the horizon by time he reaches the gap in the grass, and if he bit off more than he could chew there was no way he could count on the others to hear him or reach him easily.

When he moves close enough to see over the tops of the lush grass, Clint doesn't expect to find a man. Especially not in the middle of fucking nowhere, in insufficient layers of jumpers and a pair of ratty trousers too big for his body. And most definitely not expecting him to be without shoes. Clint was a whiny bastard when it came to being cold, he knew that, and he was regularly reminded of it when he sat inches from the fire pit pitifully rubbing his arms, so he was probably exaggerating how cold it really was outside that night. But he is smart enough to know that even a normal, healthy person would be screwed with only a few layers and no shoes, sleeping in wet grass for god knows how long. Hell, they were probably already dead, judging by the way the clothes hung limply over the man's limbs and bony feet. He balks at the thought. Sure, death was no stranger to him, he'd dealt with dead bodies before, but a body being found by someone like Clint? And in the middle of nowhere when a Carnival was in town? That was never a good thing.

“Hey, buddy, you okay there?” he calls, shouldering the rifle and kneeling down to shake the body when he is content that the guy would be too fucking weak from cold to pose any real threat. And that was if he was alive. “You can't sleep here, man, they have beds for this now” And with the shudder and groan that comes in response to his vigorous shaking, the guy is just about clinging to life. No real threat then to Clint, fortunately. _Unfortunately,_ the gigantic fucking bear that appears out of nowhere to bat him onto his ass _is_ a considerable threat.

“Holy fuck-!” he gasps out, nearly winded by the solid mass of brown fur that slams into his chest. He'd lowered his guard, too focused on the possible shit-storm that finding a corpse would have caused, he'd dropped his guard and let a fucking bear sneak up on him. Hell, why was there even a bear in the middle of the prairie! He scrambles back pathetically on the ground, trying to put as much distance between him and the grizzly as possible, his legs trembling but his fingers deathly steady as he pulls the rifle back into his grip and flicks the safety off. The bear rises up onto its back legs, the sound coming from its throat hopefully not the last thing Clint would hear in his life. Not that he would go without a fight, he had a gun and the skills to proclaim himself the best marksman in the continent, not that he really needed that when the target was standing at 8 feet tall, 5 metres away from him.

Seriously, how the fuck had he let a bear sneak up on him? _A bear._

He takes a deep breath and draws the bolt back fast, gun raised at the animal's head, and lets his finger squeeze on the trigger. Almost. There's a cry of pain and the bear jerks back, and Clint almost thinks he's shot it, but the chamber's still full and his finger's still poised on the trigger. The bear throws its weight over and turns away from Clint, blocking his view of the body on the floor. His finger is still curled on the trigger, a hair's width from firing and his body is frozen on the spot, cold seeping into the fabric of his trousers as he lies sprawled on his back in the long grass . There's a cry again and if the bear wasn't acting threatening before then it had clearly changed its mind. He scrambles to his feet, adrenaline burning in his chest like acid and his feet slip a little on the leathery grass. He can't outrun a bear, fuck no, but he feels so much safer on his feet where he can at least attempt to dodge the next time the animal tries to pat his spine into his ribcage.

“Get on the floor! Don't hurt him, just get on the floor!” Clint lets out something like a hysterical squawk as the mysterious man attempts to throw himself in front of the bear like a human shield, which is ridiculous in Clint's eyes because, even standing, the guy's body is about as wide as the animals leg and why is he trying to protect a bear which shouldn’t even be happening because it is a bear and this is the prairies so not a place where a bear should- “Now!” And the force the guy says it with is so much that Clint lowers the gun a fraction, which the man seems very pleased about as he throws himself bodily at Clint's midriff and knocks them both to the floor.

“Get the hell-what are you doing?!” Clint growls, rolling the pair of them over so Mister 'I-don't-need-shoes' is pinned beneath him, with Clint effectively placing himself between the man and the bear. He's not even sure what possessed him to do it, as far as he's concerned if the guy wants to play with fucking bears he can play with fucking bears!

“He's harmless! Don't hurt him please, he's just scared. Please...” The man whimpers to him as Clint starts to look around for his rifle, and Clint has his hands pressed on the guy's chest and can feel the outline of every rib, feel his heart hammering furiously like a piston in his chest, so he stays put. His body flattens over the other man's as he waits for his back scratched to be off by a ferocious wild animal. It doesn't happen, but there are a lot of angry thumping noises as the bear ambles back and forth agitatedly, hackles raised as Clint swears furiously in his head and stays still. “Let me... let me just talk to him-”

“Talk to him? It's a bear!”

“I know him” the man protests, his alarmingly bluish lips thinned with agitation, bony hands wrapped around Clint's wrists as he tries to slowly roll them over - which is not going to happen when the man is dying of hypothermia and built like a daffodil. Clint stares at him and refuses to budge.

“ _It's a fucking bear_ ” he hisses slowly. It isn't really fair, expecting this shoeless half frozen man to get with the program when Clint is still utterly confused by the fact he's even in _danger_ of being attacked by a bear, and that it's still standing two feet away from him, most likely plotting his demise.

“Well done, you have successfully identified that it is a bear. Now, are you going to let me calm him down or are we just going to wait here until the sun rises?” Clint scowls because the man is awfully demanding for someone who was almost dead a few minutes before. He slowly moves to the side though, eyes on the gun that's lying slightly out of reach from where it was knocked from his hands. The man wiggles slowly out from underneath him, raising one shaking hand, palm out, at the animal. Clint gets the rifle underneath himself and rolls slowly onto his back, confident because he knows he's just as good of a shot on his back lying down as he is standing or swinging from a basket. The shoeless man shuffles forwards on his knees, hands out towards the bear as if he were a blind man feeling for a wall, gentle sounds spilling from his lips as the bear rocks on its feet and grunts at him. One half of Clint wants to shoot it, because it's a wild animal and he doesn't know what it's going to do, if it's going to calm down or reach out and slash open this man's face, and he doesn't want this man to get hurt when he can pull the trigger and eradicate the problem. But a large part of him is hoping that whatever this guy is doing will work. Clint was as close to a wild animal as you could get; he was almost feral during his youth and he'd been shot at more times than he'd cared to think about, people taking one look at him and immediately thinking the worst.

The stranger keeps mumbling though, his dirty, pale feet curled up under himself as he lets his hand rub over the bears nose and ear, whole body trembling like he's sitting on a live wire, while Clint just lies there totally still, praying that what he's doing will work and that he'll make it back to the camp with all his limbs attached. It's almost like a chant, the sound coming from the man's throat, and it calms Clint on a deep level like a drug. The bear nudges its feet in, head bowed a little to the man's touches, almost nuzzling the man's hand. Its fur is a rich brown, matted in some places just like the mystery man's, and specks, almost like freckles, are scattered across its nose. The shoeless man's hand curls into the fur and disappears, skin pale and sickly in the moonlight.

“Do you really think that's safe?” Clint spits out. Stupid question because it's a fucking bear and he's petting it like a cat and it's not a cat it's a fucking bear. Instead of answering, the man just shivers and pulls his arm back weakly, hand out flat, before he lowers it slowly to the ground. The bear grunts and slides down, slouching slightly to one side and suddenly looking so bored that Clint sits up without really thinking about it. “So wait, this is a _trained_ bear?”

“What are you doing out here with a gun?” The man asks Clint in lieu of answering the question, stuffing his bony hands into his jumper pockets. The pockets are riddled with holes, and he can see his fingers poking through. They remind Clint of bamboo stems; brittle, knobbly and pale. He vaguely recognises the numb coldness of dew clinging to his trousers from lying in the grass, and can barely comprehend how cold this man must be.

“I should ask you the same thing,” he shoots back, and the man stares at him blankly “-but replace gun with, well, _a bear_. And no shoes. I'm Clint by the way” He knows how intelligent he must sound, but he's always reacted with boldness to scary situations. So he sends the guy a blinding smile and pets his gun as if it were a ferret or a kitten sleeping on his lap. The bear snorts in displeasure and rolls onto its back, all 8 foot of it, and the man just pats it soothingly with one hand while his fingers try to pinch the holes closed in his pocket lining. Clint shoots the bear a glare, because this creature was trying to kill him not three minutes ago and now its sulking like a teenager. Maybe he's dead, or unconscious. He did get slapped by a bear after all, maybe this was just a hallucination and he is really bleeding out onto the ground as the gigantic furry bastard nibbles victoriously on his innards.

“You can't train a wild animal, it's just not possible,” the man chides Clint, gently “But he's safe, you probably just scared him. I mean, if someone came at you with a gun, I'm sure you'd try to defend yourself, right? And my name's Bruce.” He adds the last part almost as an afterthought. His voice is rough, almost as if he isn't used to speaking to people and Clint has to strain to hear his voice over the chilling wind, reluctant to move much closer until he is sure the bear isn't just temporarily calm.

“Technically I was coming at _you_ with a gun, not the bear. But I guess it wouldn't have taken well to someone threatening its trainer” Bruce raises an eyebrow that shows his clear displeasure at the word “trainer”. “Are you... _do you need help_?” Bruce's skin is bluish, his eyes sunken and bones almost visible through the layers of jumpers he is wearing, so of course he needs help. But he is still shivering which at least promised the man wasn't already succumbing to the cold. He wasn't healthy, but he wasn't at the worst case scenario stage.

“I'm fine, really. A little caught out in the cold, but I can't really go too near to populated areas with Hulk. Its too dangerous.” Bruce sighs, voice vibrating a little. He rubs the bear's chin and it's eyes flicker contently.

“Hulk? Is that his name? You named your pet bear Hulk?” Bruce nods “I thought you said he was safe, you worried he's going to hurt someone?” Clint ignores the fact that they are sitting on the sodden ground in the freezing cold, ignores the fact that Bruce is clearly not “fine”, and focuses on unzipping his bomber jacket with his numbing fingers.

“It's _him_ I'm worried about. And Hulk's a wild animal, not a pet” Clint nods and takes a deep breath, moving forwards cautiously on his knees to wrap the jacket slowly around Bruce's shoulders. Hulk doesn't growl at him, just lets his head loll to the side to stare at him suspiciously, as if he were waiting for Clint to try and harm his master. Bruce tries to protest, push the jacket back at Clint but his shoulders aren't strong enough to even dislodge it. He sags weakly when Clint zips it up around him, threading his arms through the sleeves and gently pushing them into the sheepskin lined pockets..

“You okay to get up, Bruce? I'm going to take you back to the camp where I came from. Get you warmed up” he says in slow, even tones, his hand curling around Bruce's skinny bicep to help him to his feet and keep him steady.

“But Hulk-”

“He'll be fine. We can put him in one of the empty lion cages. No one's going to hurt him”. Bruce struggles weakly to stand, the adrenaline from his fight or flight moment having left him, and Clint has to wrap an arm under Bruce's as he sags into his side. He pulls the gun strap over his head so it falls across his chest and flicks the safety on with his free hand, the other hand supporting Bruce against his side. Hulk grunts loudly and ambles to his feet, his head level with Clint's stomach and, lord protect him, his crotch. The pointed stare at that particular region gives Clint the feeling that Hulk is very aware of his fear, and he angles himself away from the animal.  


“You don't like bears, but you have a lion cage?” Bruce slurs slightly, and Clint hurries to wrap his scarf around Bruce's neck and mouth. His eyes are glassy and half-lidded, and Clint is already drilling off a nice list of curses in his head as he tries to get some layers on Bruce's tiny frame.

“Lion's are cool. And tend to be a _little_ bit smaller than bears”

“Are you sure they won't hurt him?” A skeletal hand grips his own and Clint feels something in his chest contract painfully at the fear and worrying lacing the simple question. He gives his hand a little squeeze and pushes it back into one of the fleece pockets, feeling as if he'd just been holding a handful of ice cubes at how cold Bruce's skin was. He wraps his arm more firmly around Bruce's shoulders and slides his other arm under his legs, pulling him up into a bridal carry. A stain of colour spreads across Bruce's face, and Clint is a little endeared to the man, still having the mind to be embarrassed at being carried when he was shivering so violently. He tucks Bruce's body closer to his own, noting off-hand how light he was, and starts to move as quickly as he can back towards the distant lights of the tents. The sound of shuffling behind him confirms that Hulk is following behind, and as much as Clint dislikes having his back to the potentially violent animal, he keeps walking as fast as he can towards the camp.

“I promise they won't hurt him, Bruce. Us Carnival folk know what it's like to be judged for who we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part done. I should point out now that this is going to be...huge. Like, Universe huge. Expect all the Avengers, plus cameo's from X-Men and many more. I'm just going to go and cry about how stupid I am for planning a fic this big and listen to the Sherlock Holmes 2 soundtrack.


	2. Bears Have No Concept of Compensation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Cerebromangst for BETA reading and the chapter title. And a super special thanks to Fern and Rob, the only two people I know who I can text at anytime, any day, and ask to google prairie lands in America.

Bruce wakes slowly, in and out of consciousness, his limbs heavy and uncooperative and his head pounding rhythmically. Its like he's floating through cotton and warm molasses, every inch he can get his body to move brushing against sinfully soft fabric as warmth radiates over his face. At first the most he can do is whine pitifully in his head, not bothering to try hard enough to move and embracing his fate to lie down all day as his brain swells inside his head. His skin feels tight and tacky, cold sweat dried on his skin either from heat or nightmares he can't tell, and he begins to writhe a little in his bedding. His palms ache for no discernible reason and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth like moist felt. 

Bruce stirs at one point to a cool hand brushing damp locks from his forehead. He blinks up through sticky eyes and is met with a deep green pair that blink compassionately down on him. They belong to a woman with pale skin and full lips, her face surrounded with fiery red locks of hair that brush against his feverous skin. She makes soft cooing noises and runs a damp cloth over his cheeks, brushes ice cubes over his lips for him to suck at until his throat hurts a little less and his vision starts to grey at the edges. Bruce lets his eyes fall shut again as she trills nonsensically to him, gently twisting locks of grey streaked hair around her fingers until he drifts back into a fitful sleep. 

The next time he wakes its to a deep purple sky through the skylight above his head. He opens his eyes gingerly, his throat still dry and sore and his body aching dully. He's overcome with a surge of exhaustion that knocks the breath from his lungs and he lies limply on the mattress until he thinks he can move. Bruce is all together very aware that he's vulnerable in his current state. There's no way to measure how long he's been unconscious, his watch is missing and even then the date counter had been stuck for years. It doesn't do much to abate the nervous tension racking his body, but Bruce comforts himself with the knowledge that prison cells don't normally come with green paisley curtains and gingham pillows. 

The homeliness of his surroundings does surprise him, and he carefully lets out a breath. His heart is beating painfully in his chest, and he knows he'll have to gather his wits quickly if he's going to get out of here, but he takes a deep shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Bruce focuses on the hazy memory of the red haired woman, forces himself to let the gentleness of her ministrations flood his head and push back the imminent panic attack that's threatening to overwhelm him.

When his heart starts to slow to its natural rhythm, Bruce takes a cautionary look around at his surroundings. The curved roof above him connects to opposing walls inches from from his head and feet, yellowing plastic windows surround him, their ratty curtains failing to stop the late afternoon light from pouring onto his bed. Bruce stretches his arms out weakly and feels for the edge of the mattress, gently turning to look for a door or window he could hope to escape through. Instead, he finds himself staring down the interior of a caravan, which would account for the curved roof but not for the lived-in aura surrounding him. He'd been caravanning once, deep in the woods in a cold plastic box, the interior a painful reminder as to why the 80's were best forgotten. A caravan was also not what he'd expected to wake up in after eight months on the run. A prison cell, or the back of a van maybe, but not a caravan.

At the far end of the caravan, a figure lies stretched across a battered sofa, his feet resting on the armrest. The door swings inwards with the wind, banging lightly against wall and startling Bruce from his inner cursing. He goes rigid, chest thrumming with fear and adrenaline as the man stretches his legs out and bounces the door back and forth between his feet, unknowingly taunting Bruce with the means to his freedom. He is absorbed in the heavy fabric-bound book propped on his chest, a bemused expression on his face as he leisurely turns each page. Gentle strings of music float in through the open door as Bruce's mind whirls with possibilities. He needs to get out, find Hulk and keep running. Laying in bed waiting to find out the strangers intentions was not an option, nor was leaving Hulk in the hands of a stranger when he'd been unconscious for god knows how long already. Did he play possum, wait for the man to fall asleep or leave? The windows were old and cheap, the black rubber around the edges cracked and crumbling, he could probably work one of them free, find Hulk, make his escape. 

But what if he got caught? What if the man didn't leave? Bruce doesn't want to hurt anyone, he had become the man he was today by trying to help people, all he wanted to do was help people. But no one seemed to understand that. He doubted his current captors would understand either.

“It's called “Sunny Afternoon”, by a band called The Kinks. You know The Kinks right?” Bruce felt his heart pound in his throat as the voice cuts through the air, blood rushing loudly in his ears as the man continues to leaf absently through his book, apparently having noticed his waking without showing it. “Pretty popular in the 60's”. Bruce chews at the inside of his mouth, a nervous habit he'd picked up from his mother. He goes to answer but the words catch in his throat, still parched from sleeping and his tongue feeling heavier than it should. He makes a noise far from comprehension and breaks into a coughing fit, his stomach muscles clenching painfully and making him jerk onto his side so as to curl into a ball easier. The man snaps his book shut and slides out of his seat, grabbing a chipped mug from the cabinet beside the bed and filling it with water. He sits heavily next to Bruce's hip, pulling Bruce's frail body into a seated position with an “Upsy Daisy” before offering the mug to him, a stripy straw poking out for Bruce to wrap his lips around. He tentatively leans forwards when the man raises an eyebrow at him.

He sips greedily, hands gripping his forearms nervously as the man, very familiar now that he was closer, raps his fingers rhythmically on the cover of his book. Bruce could make out the title from the faded gold letters, “Cautionary Tales for Children” and wondered what he had gotten himself into. It takes at least half the cup before his throat starts to relax a little, the first few sips of water being soaked up by his parched tongue before they make it to his throat. The man gives him a thorough once over in lieu of conversation, and Bruce scrutinises him in return. He looks honest and open, his eyes a vibrant blue that contrasts strangely with his tanned skin and sun streaked blond hair. His expression is warm, despite his furrowed brow as he takes in Bruce's body fingers. But even then, the frown only helps to make his laughter lines stand out and the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes appear. It was not the face of a cruel man, but Bruce was still hesitant. 

“That was “Creep”...” Bruce croaked. The man shrugs indifferently and refills the mug, holding it out for Bruce to sip at again. “By Radiohead”. He sips more leisurely this time, enjoying the cool drink and feeling a little more human for every mouthful swallowed. The man's face was familiar, incredibly familiar and Bruce can feel the name lingering on the back of his tongue, waiting to spring forth. 

“Yeah, I know. No need to sound so offended,” the man teases, and Bruce can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at him. He is rewarded with a cocky grin, and it's hard not to get caught up in the man's infectious banter. “I was trying to see if you were actually awake this time or hallucinating again.” Hallucinating? He could remember the peaceful clutches of sleep in between hellish period of feverish paralysis, the mysterious woman. Had she been a hallucination? But then again, his body feels so much weaker than it had been, even after months of scavenging and begging for food and sleeping rough. And he'd woken up so dehydrated he couldn't speak...Had he been asleep for that long? The man nods to himself as if he can hear his thoughts “You were out of it for quite a while.” Then adds in a conspirational tone “Sometimes I'd just say things out loud to see if you were pretending to be asleep”.

“Wow, looks like I fell for it this time” Bruce dead-pans, ignoring the mock-offended gasp he got in reply. His skin still feels tight from dried sweat, and he pushes down the quilt and layers of knitted blankets to try and air himself a little. His ratty jumper and trousers were missing, instead a pair of warm cotton sweatpants were hanging off his hips, the legs twisted up around his calves from sleep, and a slightly too baggy shirt that encompasses his chest like a tent . His heart keeps up its rampant thrumming in the background of their pleasantries. He didn't have anything on him really, just his wallet with a distinct lack of money and credit cards, a folded up photograph tucked into the side and his partially working watch. The watch wasn't very important to him, telling the time had been the only reason he'd kept it. But the loss of the familiar weight sitting in his pocket made his chest seize up when his fingers twitched to where it should be. “What...how long have I been..?” he asks, agitatedly pinching the sheets around his waist into little mountains with his fingers. 

“You passed out on the way back, the cold got to you. Been in and out with a fever for almost a week” The man mumbles, pulling himself up to perch on the side of the bed, legs propped on the sideboard near Bruce's head so they were almost lying top to tail. “Do you....do you remember how you got here? Or who I am?” One of his hands rises towards Bruce's face, and his legs twitch up involuntarily. He falters, but continues to move forwards to press the back of his hand to Bruce's forehead, as if taking his temperature could explain any sudden amnesia. Bruce keeps himself from flinching again, body still tense with the urge to flee. He racks his brain, eyes screwed shut as he struggles to place the man opposite him. The prairie comes back to him, mind still a little fuzzy from sleep and shock but the night slowly starts to unravel like a thread from a jumper. 

“Clint?” He nods. “You found me out there...you had a gun?” Clint seems to waver between looking happy at being recognised and rolling his eyes at the latter part. “What?”

“I give you the coat from my back, carry you two miles in the dark, and all the remember is the gun.” Clint says pointedly, crossing his arms. Bruce squirms under the sheets, anxious despite Clint's infectious nonchalance. Stretched across the side of the bed like a cat, relaxed despite balancing on, at most, three inches of mattress, Bruce could almost forget that he was still in unfamiliar territory, missing his clothes, his meagre belongings, his travel companion...

“Where's Hulk?” The thread of panic that laced his voice is unintentional. Clint tentatively pats his leg in a soothing motion, his jaw tensing with restrained displeasure as he fights to stop the corners of his mouth from curving into a sneer. All in all, it is rather foreboding. Bruce begins to fear the worst. “What?” 

“Don't worry. Hulk is being well cared for.” His attempts at hiding what he thinks of that fail spectacularly in Bruce's eyes “We've got him in one of elephant cages. It seems he took exception to being locked out of the “Clint-Cave” while we were waiting for your fever to break.” He jerks his head at the open door, and Bruce can make out quite clearly a crosshatch of deep gouges and scratches in the front of the door. “How do you even go about bear proofing a caravan?” Clint muses to himself, but Bruce is already scrambling to pull the covers off and get out of the bed. 

Clint leaps forwards to catch Bruce under the armpits as the combination of blood rushing to his head and wrapping his feet up in the sheets brings him hurtling towards the floor. He hoists him to his feet and helps him across towards the sofa, Bruce's hands wrapped around Clint's forearms to keep himself standing. “Woah, where the hell do you think you're going?”

“I need to check on him-”

“Check on- Bruce you've barely been awake for half an hour, you're not going anywhere.” Bruce makes for the caravan door, but Clint simply sidesteps him and uses his own weight to spin him back into the caravan. He turns him around gently but firmly and tries to push him back towards the bed, but Bruce digs his heels in and protests.

“No, you don't understand. His paws, they may have splinters in!” Bruce refuses to relent and presses his hands against the cabinets on either side of the walkway. From the looks of it, and the fact he'd carried Bruce for two miles in the cold, Clint is definitely a fair bit stronger than him, but Bruce keeps on fighting as Clint tries to prise his fingers off the cabinet edges.

“Splinters? Look at my caravan, the smug bastard probably has my door handle stuck in his paw” 

“But he could get an infection-” Bruce throws himself back against Clint's chest and wriggles under his arm, making a break for the open door with what little speed a man can muster after a fever-induced coma. He makes it a foot before Clint's arms wrap around waist and hoist him off the floor. He yelps and scrambles for purchase as he is manhandled back to the bed and elegantly deposited onto the mattress with a bounce. The look on Clint's face leaves no room for discussion, and as Bruce pushes himself to sit upright, he feels himself sag with the strain of trying to escape. 

“Bruce. Breathe, okay? You need to calm down.” His voice is firm and insistent, and he pushes on Bruce's shoulder until he sits back against the wall, his heartbeat once again pounding in his chest. When he is certain that he was not about to make another bid for freedom, Clint sits next to him on the mattress, pushing the sleeves of his threadbare, maroon jumper up to his elbows. Bruce continues to suck in deep breaths, trying to remember the meditation techniques he'd been taught at the compulsory employee anger management training. 

“Hulk is fine. Fury had him checked over by one of the animal trainers when he got here. You probably owe him a box of chocolates or a small island nation for dealing with that menstruating fur ball. No offence,” he adds as Bruce wheezes unhappily at him. “And speaking of infections, hands. Palms up. Show me.” He jerks his head at Bruce's hands where they were absently picking at the patchwork quilt that was folded at the end of the bed. Bruce remembers the dull ache he'd felt the first time he had woken up and holds his hands up to look for himself, but Clint reaches out and pulls them towards him instead.

He brushes his thumbs over the centre of Bruce's palms, a sharp stab of pain flaring in their wake as he gently applies pressure. Struggling a little under his own weight and muscle loss, Bruce pushes himself upright and meekly studies his own hands. There are little crescent shaped cuts littering his palms, Clint's thumbs pushing and prodding them gently to check for infections. Bruce chews on his lip as Clint continues his examination, the first human contact he'd had in months since going on the run. They are warm and roughly calloused, not at all like the last hand he'd held. They are larger, encompassing his own slender hands, and the backs are littered with little nicks and white scars. Above the thick leather cuff on his left wrist are more scars, long thin gashes that stretch like a zebra-crossing up to his elbow. 

“What happened to my hands?” he asks when Clint seems to veer from studying the scars to the creases in his hands. He wants to ask about the scars littering Clint's arm, clearly very old and barely noticeable if it weren't for his tan, but he has more pressing concerns on the forefront of his mind.

“'Tasha had to file your nails down while you were under with the fever. You kept hallucinating and freaking out, clenching your hands until your nails cut your palms. You're lucky I didn't let her manicure them” he grins and continues to scrutinise the sides of Bruce's hands. He looks up when as silence fell and catches where Bruce's gaze is aimed. “Archery scars. That's what you get for training without an arm guard.” He drops Bruce's hands back into his lap and mimes pulling a bowstring, whipping his hand forwards to flick at one of the thin scars stretched across the middle of his arm. “And your hands are fine, 'Tasha cleaned the wounds but it's always good to check. And don't worry, your hooker nails should grow back fine as well”. Bruce ignores the jab at his fingernails; an emery board hadn't been on his list of essentials when he'd been escaping the authorities, and Hulk had always seemed to like having his ears scratched with Bruce's slightly too long nails.

“And the rest of my hands? I'm guessing you moisturised them while I was hallucinating violently?” The blood had ceased from pounding so loudly in his ears, and he feels steady enough to try standing up again without passing out. Hopefully, that would be enough to convince Clint to let him see Hulk, even if it was only for a few minutes. 

“I was checking out your life lines, I already had your hands so I figured why not. Madame X is going to love you, you have the hands of a geriatric” He slips off the bed and picks the discarded mug off the floor, leaning out the door to wave at someone before tying it back. All the while, Bruce stareS unimpressed at his own hands. 

“Thanks. I'm flattered. I'm sorry to tell you this, but I'm a bit sceptical about reading someone's life in the palm of their hand.” Clint scoffs and raises his hands in surrender, busying himself with putting things away in the caravan, or “Clint-Cave” as he'd called it earlier. It seems quite at odds with the man opposite him; his rough, work calloused hands, hair that had clearly been cut for practicality rather than style, and well-worn corduroys a complete opposite to the homey, character filled box he inhabited. The back of the door is smothered in overlapping photographs and postcards, while several well loved coffee-presses jostle for space on the shelves along with carnival ribbons, hand carved figures and trinkets. The bed Bruce is resting in is, on its own, a far cry from the cheeky but practical looking man. He can't even imagine him settling down to bed with the hand knitted blankets and patchwork quilt, but Bruce can clearly tell that they are his from the way he seems to cherish them as he puts them away and folds them up. “So, exactly how short are my life lines?” he asks when Clint finally places a kettle on the gas cooker and sits down. 

“Nice and normal, Captain Pessimistic. I'm not nearly as good at reading palms as Madame is, but I can read a few odd ones. These for example-” He holds up his right hand and points at the side, just below the little finger “Show how many meaningful relationships you'll have in your life. You have a pretty distinct one at the bottom, which would be your first love. Suggests its very deep and powerful for you. But then above that you have two big ones interconnecting. Not sure what that means exactly, I think polygamy is still illegal in most US states, but no one here will judge”. Clint wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, and kicks his feet up again. Apparently the only reason the sideboards were so spotless was so he could kick his feet up onto anything within distance. Bruce snorts dismissively at him, swallowing down the surge of guilt and disgust he'd been travelling with since he went on the run, and tentatively turns to sit with his legs hanging off the side of the bed. 

“And where is here exactly?” Clint narrows his eyes and makes to stand up. “I promise I won't try to escape again.” There are a few seconds of intense staring before Bruce sighs and makes a show of throwing the quilt over his legs, and Clint relaxes back in his seat. 

“Here, is a town in the outskirts of Ohio. Here, however, is Nick Fury's Carnival of Wonders.” Clint finishes with a flourish of hands and Bruce tries not to stare too hard at him. Apparently he failed, as Clint pouts petulantly back at him and drops his arms heavily into his lap. “What?”

“Carnival of Wonders?”

“Yeah, well its basically a circus. Carnival just sounds more European and classy.” Bruce, a little too bowled over by the absurdity of the situation to give a real reaction, just sits there wondering when his life had become a farce. He says as much and Clint barks out a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, you're probably one of the more normal ones here”

“Really?”

“No. No one ever rocked up with a bear. Even I think you're weird.”

“Thank you,” he deadpans, “So, when you say Hulk is safe, you mean it?” For all his joking and teasing, the look Clint gives Bruce is deadly serious, his eyes taking a slightly sharper gleam as he sits up to look him straight on.

“I mean it. You were already out of it when I told you, but us circus folk know what it's like to be judged for no reason. So long as you don't try to hurt us, well that makes you alright in my books. Now I don't know why you're wondering in the middle of nowhere with no shoes, and I will be asking you about that later, but yeah...” Clint trails off and looks out the window, shoulders tense and solid. The conviction he says it with, and the honesty burning in his eyes loosens the low coil of anxiety that had been sitting in Bruce's stomach. 

“I've already imposed on you long enough, and I'm very thankful for everything you've done for me, and for Hulk-” Bruce folds the blanket in his arms and places it back on the bed. His vision swims slightly but he finds his feet quickly, his second attempt at standing and moving already ten times better than his first.

“Woaah-No you don't. You aren't going anywhere until you're one hundred percent fine. Hell, you're not going anywhere until we get you a pair of shoes-” Clint protests, standing quickly to stop from moving towards the door.

“Please, you've already done more than enough for me. And I really should be on my way-”

“I swear to god, Bruce, if you don't get back into the bed I'm going to pick you and put you there myself. Again!” 

“Are we interrupting anything, gentlemen?” Bruce freezes, arms still locked in Clint's strong hands as he continues to prevent him leaving. Clint peers over his shoulder with a look of slight surprise before knocking Bruce backwards onto his ass. He sits down on the counter beside the bed and kicks one leg up across the narrow walkway when Bruce moves to stand up from the bed again. 

“Nope, I was just encouraging Bruce to get back into bed until he fully recuperates.” He shoots Bruce a smug grin and reclines against the sink “Bruce, this is Ringmaster Fury, and Coulson.”

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you, son”

“Am I hallucinating again?!” Bruce whispers fervently to Clint, eyes slightly too wide and focused on the two men peering in through the open caravan door. Clint looks mildly concerned and briefly considers kicking Fury and Coulson out until his house guest is in a saner state of mind. 

“...Er, what makes you think that?” he asks, and the look Bruce gives him clearly shows how stupid of a question Bruce thinks that is. 

“He's got an eyepatch and that man is wearing a top hat!” It comes out several levels more hysterical than Bruce is aiming for, and Clint worries that maybe he'd overstimulated him a bit too much within his first few hours of consciousness.

“I'm real Bruce, probably the realest man you'll ever meet. Coulson?” The thin, unassuming man with the top hat nods and removes it carefully, placing it on Clint's countertop. It slightly lessens his unusual appearance, his face quite unremarkable and with a very non-threatening smile, but the fact that both men appear to be dressed in full tail coats is still quite absurd. “You'll pardon me if I don't remove my eyepatch, but I hardly think it will help to relax you”. 

He strides into the caravan and it instantly feels smaller, though that could in part be because the number of people inside it had just doubled. He looks every bit a Ringmaster, his tailcoat and trousers made of black well-worn leather, little tassels hanging from each shoulder like an admiral's coat, and an eyepatch that seems to have been made to go with his ensemble. He extends a gloved hand to Bruce who shakes it, entranced, before making himself at home on the sofa next to the other strangely dressed man.

Coulson's entire outfit matches his aura in much the same way Fury's does. It's a nondescript grey with lighter grey pinstripes, no frills or tassels on the shoulders and every button lightly polished. Its neatly pressed, every inch of it meticulously kept and it seems to blend into the background of the interior despite their vastly contrasting shades. He is altogether unobtrusive and it unnerves Bruce more than it should.

“Now son, I quiet agree with Clint here. There's no way you are going anywhere until you are fully rested and recuperated.” 

“And then of course, there are the damages to the carnival property that need to be accounted for,” Coulson chimes in, flicking through a thick notebook he'd procured from his pocket. Clint nearly falls off the counter he's perched on as Fury nods in agreement. 

“Of course. Rest, recuperation and reimbursement.” Fury smiles and reclines further on the sofa. The kettle on the gas cooker starts to whistle and rattle and Clint hurries to turn the gas off before it falls from the stove. 

“What damages? He's been unconscious for six days, the only thing he's damaged so far is himself.” Clint prowls angrily in the walkway, trying to peer at Coulson's notebook as he continues to flick back and forth between various pages and scribble, shamelessly adjusting the angle he held it at to block it from Clint's view. 

“That's not technically true. I mean, for a start there's the exterior damage to the outside of the caravan-”

“That was the fucking bear! Or are you saying Bruce here snuck out at night and started gnawing on my wheel arches?” Clint growled angrily, crowding close to Coulson who continues to flick through his book and look utterly unimpressed with everything. Fury raises a hand to quieten Clint, the blond snarling under his breath and slouching angrily against the caravan wall.

“And how do you expect our grizzly friend out there to pay for those damages, Clint?” Fury asked smoothly, steepling his fingers in his lap and pinning Clint with a unrelenting stare. Clint seems to be fighting the urge to sneer and throw things.

“Of course, “Hulk” cannot be expected to pay for the damages he caused to the exterior of the caravan, or to the bars of the lion cage he so vehemently chewed at. So in his place his owner would be expected to provide some sort of compensation towards the Carnival” Coulson speaks with an air of business-like competency, his voice quiet but clear and his every word carefully selected for its purpose. In the presence of two different, yet equally imposing men, Bruce feels incredibly small. For one, he is wearing the same thing he'd apparently been sleeping in all week, while the men opposite him sit leisurely in their three piece suits and tails. A part of him wishes he had his PhD just so he could wave it around and feel less inadequate. 

“This is bullshit! The man's barely been awake for four hours and-”

“Clint, Could you excuse us while we discuss this with Bruce?” Clint splutters to a stop and stares uncomprehendingly at Fury.

“Excuse-This is my caravan!” 

“Which you rent from me. Now, if you could close the door after you...” A silent argument rages between Clint and Ringmaster Fury, the tension in the air almost suffocating Bruce who sits practically unnoticed on the bed, Coulson still jotting away as if two of the men in the room weren't engaged in a vicious battle of wills above his head. Eventually, after a terse silence, Clint throws his hands up in defeat and stalks out the caravan, the door slamming shut behind him to growled curses and insults. 

An eerie silence permeates the air in his wake, and Bruce feels altogether too weak to be dealing with this kind of shit. Coulson lifts himself out of the sofa and busies himself at the stove, pouring hot water into one of the french-presses, expertly weaving through the cupboards as if he knows the place like the back of his hand and pulling out teacups and saucers. He gently pushes down the plunger of the press and pours out the coffee, handing one to Fury who inhales it reverently, and one on the counter next to his seat. Bruce blinks as a tall steaming glass blocks his line of sight, and he gingerly accepts it. Coulson gives him another unreadable smile and sits neatly back on the sofa, knees together and his hands cupping the tea cup full of coffee. Bruce shudders at the silence and takes a tentative sip at his glass, the taste of lemon and honey flooding his tongue. 

“Now Bruce, how does a nice man such as yourself end up barefoot in the middle of nowhere, with no money, no ID and a bear” Bruce chokes on his next sip, nearly spilling boiling hot water down his front. “And I'd prefer it if you didn't lie.”

“Why should I tell you anything?” Bruce asks, his hands trembling slightly from the strain of holding the heavy glass. His eyes searched the two men's for anything that could give him an insight into their thoughts. 

“Bruce. I'm not interested in money, or free labour. I'm interested in you. I'm staring at a man I know nothing about, I don't know your surname, where you're from, how old you are, how you like your coffee in the morning... But what I do know, is that you have a bear tagging along with you. A bear, that as I hear it, listens to you like I listen to my mother, rest her soul. Now that, Bruce, that I am interested in” Fury speaks with a powerful rhythm, every word reverberating off his sternum and into Bruce's throat. It's hypnotic to hear him speak, like he could talk Bruce into doing anything, just with the power of his voice.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm not saying anything at the moment Bruce. It all depends on what you are going to say to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the internet is back in my house the next chapter should be up in good time. Comments would be lovely, as they help to combat the zubats of self-doubt, constantly battling me on my way to the cave exit of author contentment.


	3. Please Don't Tease The Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a dick. No really, I have no excuse for the RIDICULOUSLY long hiatus I took, so you're all just going to have to settle for calling me a humungous phallus and be appeased at the reappearance of my writing muse.  
> But really, I'm a dick and I promise I won't take a year to post the next chapter.
> 
> Special thanks to Cerebromangst for BETA reading, I don't know how you haven't killed me for randomly changing tense every paragraph. And if you don't hate me when you finish the chapter, you should follow me on tumblr at iron-wang.tumblr.com

Clint's fingers itched.

Glancing back at the scratched linoleum of his caravan, he felt blindly around in his pockets for his worn leather pouch of tobacco and turned towards the towering shape of the big top. The flags hung limp from the supporting poles, their blue and grey stripes dulled from the elements and littered with the subtle signs of wear and tear. One half of the tent had yet to be erected, and the canvas hung from the supporting poles, twisting the tent's stripes into odd swirls. With once last sulking look at his home of seven years, he set off towards the performers entrance, dodging the tent pegs and hastily erected clothes lines of their makeshift village. 

Clint thought of his own caravan, sitting on the outskirts of the tight cluster of tents and the plastic homes on wheels of his fellow performers, of the green moss that had taken root in the corners and crags, and the long gashes that now marred its already peeling exterior. No doubt Fury would demand he do something about the marks, glue them back down or fucking paper maché over them.

Smoke was rising up from the large fire pit that had been dug in the very centre of their village, surrounded by deckchairs and the occasional lawn chair. It was at the fire pit that most of the cooking took place and everyone gathered at night to avoid the cold that whistled in between the tents and trailers. Of course, they all had their own cookers or camping stoves should they want to cook alone, but people rarely did. 

Clint dodged a few hungover clowns, one throwing up what looked like a disturbing amount of glitter, and began to roll himself a cigarette, whistling a repetitive tune as he went. They had at least two days before the carnival would be up and open, the joy of being in the slightly more deserted parts meant they had more time to set themselves up and gave the increasingly weary troupe a chance to relax and take it slow.

Licking the seam, Clint carefully folded the cigarette shut and tucked it behind his ear, before parting the oiled canvas into the big top. The familiar scent of hay, pellets and grease paint greeted him, as well as the noises of several different animals. The big top comprised of two tents; the largest housed the performance ring and acrobat rigging, as well as the spectator seats, whilst the smaller tent protruded from the back, kept for the performers and the animals to wait for their performance slot.

At the moment, it was devoid of people, the space filled with giant cages and trailers spaced out at the edge of the tent in a loose circle. Fury's Carnival seemed to have slowly grown in its time and amassed new equipment as it went; some cages were the classic brightly painted wooden wagons, with thick bars and carriage wheels, while others were crude corrugated iron sheds with mesh fronts, put up in a hurry for unexpected animals, or a few of the more expensive large steel trailers with interconnecting compartments and built-in water supplies. The lions, as the least likely to gnaw the bars, had been given the wooden carriages, the elephants the large steel trailers and the uglier cages were for the least fussy animals; horses, monkeys, dogs... 

All but one were stationed around the edges of the tent, and Clint made his way towards the Redwood cage seated far from the others. The inhabitant gave him a dismissive grunt and resumed gnawing on the bars. Clint could see traces of bitter oil smeared around its mouth, no doubt smeared on the bars in the hope of discouraging the teething issue. Clearly, it wasn't working.

"You are one surly mother-fucker." 

Clint stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched the bear wiggle its jaw. It glared at him, which was impressive in itself as Clint had never met an animal that could express so much through the use of eyebrows, and continued to try and chew its way to freedom. He ambled closer to the cage and eyed up the scratches and teeth indentations littering the wood, rocking on his heels and returning to his tuneless whistling.

The bear stared at him and began to gnaw with renewed vigour.

"Fury's pretty pissed already, you break one of those bars and he's going to turn you into an ugly coat."

He received little more than a rumbling growl and the worrying sound of splintering wood. Plucking the cigarette from behind his ear, he rolled it between his fingertips and began to lazily circle the cage, the noise of his Zippo sending a ripple through the bear's fur as he passed behind it. Sauntering closer, he took a deep drag, feeling the itchy, shaky feeling in his hands dissipate a little as the nicotine started to seep into his system. Clint blew the smoke out his nostrils and drew a little closer.

"You should try-" There was a snarl and Clint leapt back as a thick paw, easily the size of his face, shot out from between the bars and swiped the air where his chest had been previously. He stilled, heart hammering, and took another drag. The glow of the cigarette end reflected back at him from the bears eyes. 

"You should know better than to tease those bigger than you, Clint."

He spun on his heel, a flushed-looking figure emerging from the interconnecting flaps of the two tents. Her hair, a fiery red, hung in damp tendrils from the bun atop her head and she was draped in layers of baggy cotton. She grinned, eyes sparkling, and made her way to a tall crate to fetch a metal cannister of water and a frayed towel.

"I'm not teasing. I'm just...familiarising myself...er-" he glanced at the mass of growling fur behind him and shrugged. She rolled her eyes and took a deep swig. "Have a nice dangle, Natasha?" he said brightly and turned to join her as she started to make her way out of the tent. He shot one last look at the bear, which was watching him with large dark eyes, and ducked out of the tent back into the blinding sunlight. 

She gracefully accepted the change of subject and offered him the canister, wrinkling her nose as a cloud of smoke crossed her path.

"Lovely, my silks are fresh, it was like hanging from water." She weaved through the packed shelters towards the back of the encampment, her petite shoulders swathed in burgundy fabric. "It's iced mint tea. Try not to spit it out this time"

Clint held back the snort in time and hasted to wipe a small dribble from his chin as he swallowed. Natasha laughed and rescued the canister as he spluttered and forced his face into a less disgusted shape.

"Firstly, that's nice. Secondly, that shit is disgusting. I don't understand why you can't drink water like a normal person." He spat a piece of soggy leaf into the grass "At least strain it, or put rum in it."

"Mint tea is delicious to the more cultured palates, and I'd hardly call a Mojito a post-workout drink." She pulled the tie from her hair and shook it out, the sweat making it hang limply against her nape. Clint answered her with a waggle of the eyebrows and flicked the end of his cigarette into the grass as she parted the flaps to her own den.

Natasha had her own caravan, a small, vibrantly painted gypsy capsule with a built-in stove and fold down bed, filled with lamps, embroidered cushions and other miscellaneous trinkets. A small tent that connected to the front made a living area, the floor layered with thick moroccan carpets and larger cushions that people could slouch and drape themselves over when visiting. Clint had his own preferred spot, which he sank into as she began to peel off the layers of cotton wrapped around her body.

There was a wide tin wash basin on the floor, filled halfway with cold water for her to top up with boiling water from her little stove. Clint let himself flop back until he was peering at the patched canvas roof. She cared little for modesty, and would have stripped and bathed regardless of whether he'd looked away or not, but the novelty of watching her purposefully rub herself down had worn off a few years back, and Clint preferred to at least act under the pretence of being a gentlemen.

Rolling onto his side when his eyes started to grow heavy, Clint found Natasha sitting with crossed legs opposite from him in baggy grey trousers and a faded men's shirt, towelling her hair dry. Her practise outfit, a threadbare black leotard, was balled up in the basin along with her other dirty laundry, waiting to be washed when he eventually left to go back to his own caravan or to wander the perimeter. She threw the damp towel over the panelled doors of her caravan and busied herself pouring leftover boiling water into a squat metal teapot that sat on a wide tray surrounded by patterned glasses.

"So, how is our guest?" She dragged the tray into the centre of the tent and fixed him with a pointed gaze. He scowled, his earlier frustrations returning along with the familiar hunger for more nicotine.

"He's being interrogated by Fury and Coulson as we speak. Guy can barely stand." He picked at the threads edging one of the many rugs until she slapped his hand away and began pouring the hot tea into the glasses. 

"Did he speak to you at all? I'd be very interested to see how a beggar came to be wondering the prairie with a bear." Of course, Natasha and Clint had spent many hours locked in his caravan late at night as Bruce lay tossing and turning, mumbling incoherently in bed, discussing the various hows and whys of his arrival. Neither had found any obvious conclusion. His wallet, empty but for a single faded photograph brought them nothing but more questions.

"Nothing. Just seemed anxious to get out of there as soon as possible, pretty damn adamant that he should get to see that bear, "Hulk". I think he was more concerned about the animal than he was for himself..." Clint couldn't be fucked to hide his dislike for the animal. It had ambled peacefully enough beside him all the way back to the camp, ignored the shouts and mad fleeing of the carnival's troupe as they approached their destination, but the second Bruce had been taken inside Clint's caravan it had turned into a menace. It had taken hours to get it safely locked in one of the cages, and Clint's heart still jolted at the memories of the bear almost ripping his home in half. It was a menace as far as he was concerned, and the very idea that Bruce had been living off the land without it eating or mauling him was astounding in itself.

"Curious. Perhaps it's shock. He had been in the cold for a very long time” Natasha frowned at the strand of hair held between her fingers and sipped at her glass of sweet tea. “My hair is fading, I'll need to colour it again soon" Clint scowled.

"They shouldn't be hassling him, the guy only just stopped speaking in tongues for fuck's sake and Fury's already pressing him over "damages" and "compensation" which-"

"Yes, I too am very interested in how Fury expects him to repay the carnival," she interrupted, deep in thought. He took at tentative sip at the tea, blowing over the surface as the sweet heat of the cinnamon flooded his tongue and prickled at the back of his throat. "Perhaps he wishes to convince Bruce to part with his companion?"

Clint spat his tea across the carpet, oblivious to Natasha's look of distaste shot at him. He dropped the glass back onto the tray and stared incredulously at her.

"Please tell me, _please_ tell me you are shitting me. That bear is a insane" He stood up and began to pace, a strange sight considering the tent was barely 5 foot wide and he had to duck to avoid strangling himself from the rope washing line crossing the top. "And totally wild! Sure, Bruce managed to get it to back down but can you see Kawalski pulling that off?" He laughed loudly, without humour, and dropped back down onto the cushions. "That would be a hell of a sight to see, one abomination trying to train another."

"You are so quick to offend. Your caravan is in cheap condition, I'm sure it can be fixed in no time" 

"This isn't about my caravan," Clint bristled, crossing his arms and resuming his pose of 'sulking child'.

"Sure it isn't. Thor broke the winch and you wouldn't speak to him for a month.” She clucked her tongue at him “Bruce is a nice name, don't you think?"

"He could be named worse" He huffily accepted the fresh glass handed to him and deflated back into his seat, "And don't pretend you wouldn't go bunny boiler on anyone if they dared to touch _your_ caravan." Natasha raised an eyebrow and curled her legs under herself.

"I don't understand why I would be cooking rabbit if someone-" Clint waved her off with one hand, brow furrowed and his shoulders hunched. She merely shook her head and resumed examining the state of her hair.

"How are your feet?" he asked quietly, his temper fading off as the warmth of the tea settled into his bones. She shrugged.

"As well as can be expected in this weather. The cold makes all old injuries ache at night. I am sure I'm not the only one feeling it." They sat in silence, the steam curling out of the spout of the teapot, rippling in on itself in the breezeless tent.

Clint emptied his glass, and with a small smile pulled himself upright and exited the tent, his feet carrying him towards the fire pit in the centre of the grouping of caravans. Two people were present, a man dressed in worn, but clean clothes stirring a large pot over the embers , the other brushing out their long, beautiful black hair, heavy skirt draped over their lap. Clint nodded to the first, taking a cursory glance into the pot to see some sort of stew, and let his body soak up some of the heat from the fire.

"Our friend awake yet?" The man asked, thick Brooklyn accent evident after speaking with Natasha's gentle Russian. Clint nodded and gestured in the direction of his caravan fifty metres away. 

"Yeah, Fury's with him now. Coulson too. I'm heading back now anyway, so..." He gave a hearty pat to the man's shoulder and ambled towards his caravan, calling over his shoulder at the last second.

"Loki, leave Steve alone". 

The indignant snort carried over to him as he rapped on the door, scuffing his feet for want of something to do. There was a creak and Coulson and Fury emerged, a satisfied air emanating from the Ring Master. Clint didn't budge, an expectant expression on his face as Coulson adjusted his top hat a minuscule degree.

"Get that boy fed. Gotta get his strength up" was all Fury said as he barged past, and with that the pair strode off towards the Big Top, shadows stretched out across the grass in the setting sun. Clint hauled himself up into the caravan and found Bruce sitting hunched over on the bed, a troubled expression on his face and an half-empty mug of lukewarm tea cradled in his hands. Clint went to open his mouth but was interrupted by a loud grumbling from the other man's stomach. Bruce looked up at him bashfully and scratched the back of his neck.

"Well Bruce, I hope you like obscure meat stew..." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey man, normally i'd be all like "yolo, comments plz" but i'm worried that i'll just get a lot of hate mail and abuse because not only did I make you wait a year for an update...I also made the update really boring and utterly unimportant to the plot. 
> 
> So you should all just read this and then go and have a cup of tea.


End file.
